


The 39th Annual Hunger Games

by daydreambel1ever



Series: The Other Games - Stories from Panem [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Careers (Hunger Games), District 1 (Hunger Games), District 11 (Hunger Games), District 9 (Hunger Games), F/F, F/M, Hunger Games, Hunger Games Tributes, Hunger Games Victors, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regret, Relationship(s), Sexuality, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Survival, Survivor Guilt, The Capitol (Hunger Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreambel1ever/pseuds/daydreambel1ever
Summary: The 39th Hunger Games, told from three different perspectives of citizens whose lives are changed by the games.Quimby Walker is the most recent District 9 Victor, winning the 25th Hunger Games fourteen years ago. Not a day goes by that he doesn't think of Glenna, his district partner, and Suspiria, his mysterious former escort. When the other District 9 Victor pays a girl to volunteer for her child, Quimby's conscience leads him to work harder than ever to bring her home.Citrine Ollivander, the female tribute from District 1, has been training for this her entire life. She proves everyone wrong by being chosen as the volunteer from the Training Academy. But when she meets another tribute with a completely different opinion of the Games, Citrine begins to question everything she has learned and what kind of person she wants to be.Blossom Avery is content with her life in District 11: she works, takes care of her siblings, and spends time with August Harding, the love of her life. Her world crashes down around her when August is reaped for the Hunger Games.
Series: The Other Games - Stories from Panem [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026991
Comments: 4
Kudos: 1





	1. Quimby POV - The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome to the 39th Annual Hunger Games! This is my first time posting a fanfic on AO3, and it would mean the world to me if you commented below with suggestions, critiques, etc. I intend to make this part of a series, telling the story of that year's Hunger Games through the eyes of multiple people involved. Thanks for reading!
> 
> CHAPTER 1 LENGTH: ~15 pages

**39th Hunger Games**

**Quimby Walker, District 9 Victor, 25th Hunger Games**

There were five other people in the Arena the day Glenna died. 

Mud was caked in her hair and covered her pinkish skin. We were both plastered in it, our attempt at camouflage after the bloodbath. Glenna said it was important we replenish it daily; dried mud turned to dirt, which would look out of place as we lay still by the riverbed. Right before twilight, I scouted the area and deemed it safe to move. But I had been wrong. 

Glenna wanted to collect berries from the bush she’d found about a quarter mile away from our riverbed sanctuary. We need to eat, she’d pleaded, it’s been days. I wanted to move. There were only seven of us left, and if we stayed close to the river, eventually we’d be found. I had my staff, Glenna had her dagger, but we’d be mincemeat if either of the two remaining Careers found us. My stomach was growling, but safety was my highest priority. Her safety was my highest priority. 

But then it was dark. Moonlit. The forest floor was red with her blood, wet with her blood, she was drowning in her blood, I was running and she was screaming my name, I couldn’t get there in time, I couldn’t save her — 

“Quimby! Quimby, it’s time to wake up!” Ismene’s high pitched voice jolted me awake. I wasn’t in the arena. I was in bed, safe. It had been fourteen years since I won the 25th Hunger Games, the very first Quarter Quell, but I still returned to that damned arena almost every night. Instinctively my hands searched the sheets for my staff. I groaned, dragged myself to my feet, and opened the bedroom door. 

“Ismene, did you move my staff?” I bellowed. Ismene Cardew had only been the District 9 escort for two years, and she’d dedicated the entire time to “straightening” up my house, my appearance, and basically my entire life. 

This extended to my staff, which she insisted I didn’t need to carry with me all the time. “Really, Quimby, what would people think if they knew you slept with a weapon?” She had once asked, wrinkling her nose. Ismene’s flawless hands had probably never held so much as a butter knife. She never felt unsafe, so she couldn’t understand why I needed my staff, even while sleeping. 

As if on cue, the escort, tiny and lithe as a pixie, glided into view. “Oh Quimby,” she began, in her warbling, breathless way, “I was hoping you’d look more presentable for our  _ visitors _ , you know today is so—“

I cut her off. “Where is my staff?” Indulgently, I closed my bedroom door, knowing Ismene would be embarrassed if anyone else saw the empty bottles in my room. We worked hard, my escort and I, to make sure nobody found out about my little alcohol problem. 

Her face turned a bit more pleasant, and she arranged her indigo mouth into a bright smile. “We polished it,” she says, handing me the staff. Made of solid oak and almost as tall as Ismene was, my staff made me feel protected in a way that even an army of Peacekeepers couldn’t. I had carved it myself after I returned to District 9, using my father’s old tools and the wood from half of my mother’s dining room table. They both had refused to move to Victors’ Village with me, claiming they had no need of handouts, but Mother had accepted my offer to buy her some new furniture. The tightness in my chest dissipated and I breathed easily again. 

“The prep team is set up in the parlor. We’ve found you a new stylist this year. You’ll just love him!” Ismene chirped, leading me down the grand staircase of my mansion. That was one perk of living in Victors’ Village - the house was pretty damn nice. Neighbors were scarce, too; I was the second Victor District 9 had ever had. All of the houses on my street were completely empty, which had always struck me as wasteful. There were families in my old neighborhood who crowded more than ten people in a single bedroom, but we had whole mansions waiting for Victors who would never come. 

I clutched the bannister with my left hand as we descended, trying not to pay attention to how shaky I felt. Last night I had, for the millionth trillionth time since leaving the arena, drank too much. 

Sitting in my parlor was a tall, dark-skinned, pink haired man wearing the brightest fuschia blush I had ever seen. He shot me a comically toothy grin and rose to embrace me, his extra height engulfing me. “Hello! I am Myles,” he announced in his flamboyant Capitol accent. I gripped my staff even more tightly at his touch. He smelled like freshly-cut grass. Behind his right shoulder, three practically identical white-haired women golf-clapped as he released me. Ismene joined in their applause, and Myles bowed grandly. 

Ismene’s small hand found its way to the crook of my arm. “Myles is going to style you and the male tribute this year, and we’ve found you the most dashing suit, and Gaia is going to do your hair, and you’re going to look brilliant!” She gushed, giving me a squeeze. I tried to look interested, but probably failed. The three white haired women moved closer and began to inspect me, leading me to a chair set up in the corner of the room. Despite their hair color, none of them appeared to have a single wrinkle or imperfection on their angular faces. 

“Is Rowyn coming?” I asked hopefully. Rowyn was the other District 9 Victor, the winner of the 12th annual Hunger Games, and my mentor. Every year we traveled to the Capitol with the tributes, and every year we helped each other deal with watching them die. She lived in the mansion closest to town with her husband and children. By everyone’s standard, Rowyn was the picture perfect Victor, while I was the drunken fuck-up who lived in the past. 

“Serafine is getting Rowyn ready in her home,” Ismene says. “Do you want some water?” 

“Coffee, please,” I say, leaning my head back so one of the women can start on my hair. I close my eyes and allow my mind to empty. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

Two hours and three cups of strong coffee later, Myles beams at me proudly and hands me a mirror. Honestly, I have to admit I look good. My skin, usually dry and a bit sallow after a rough night, looks even and fresh. My brown eyes barely look bloodshot, and you’d have to squint to see the bags underneath them. My sideburns are trimmed, my teeth are whitened, and the bit of stubble they left looks rugged and devil-may-care instead of neglected. 

“The finishing touch,” Ismene breathes, fastening a dark violet bow tie to my shirt collar. It brings out the flecks of green in my eyes and contrasts with the mustard yellow suit Myles picked out. I rub the top of my staff with my thumb and give her one of my rare smiles. Her joy is palpable. Ismene drives me crazy most of the time, but I know she meddles because she cares. 

“Wow, you clean up well,” says a soothing voice from behind me. I turn my head and see Rowyn. Her dress is a dark gold color at the top, but fades into a forest green right above her hips. Serafine has twisted her dark ringlets into an elaborate updo that shows off Rowyn’s bronze skin and high cheekbones. 

I make a show out of looking her up and down. “You don’t look so bad yourself, old lady,” I joke. She rolls her eyes at me. Rowyn won her Games twenty-seven years ago, but a relatively easy life spent in Victors’ Village has made it so she looks ten years younger than she actually is. 

I lean down and give her a peck on both cheeks and a hug. Rowyn is one of the few people whose touch I can tolerate. She pats my back. “How are you holding up?” She whispers in my ear. I pull back and give her a slightly forced smile, which she returns empathetically. 

“Did Christopher and the children already walk down?” Ismene asks. Rowyn’s husband, Christopher, isn’t allowed to wait with us in the Justice Building, so he takes Rhea, Penelope, and Cliff to the town square for the reaping. Rowyn nods, smile fading. Her eldest daughter, Rhea, is fifteen, meaning her name is in the reaping ball four times; thirteen-year-old Penelope’s name is in there twice. With Rowyn being a Victor, neither of the girls will ever have to apply for tesserae to feed their families, but they aren’t exempt from the reaping. The odds are always in their family’s favor, but the Capitol can take even a Victor’s child with no repercussions. No one was truly safe. 

Ismene seemed to notice the tension. “You know,” she pipes up helpfully, “I heard that the Capitol had over seventy-thousand tesserae claimed in our district.”  _ Our  _ district. I tried to keep my face neutral, act like Ismene and I weren’t so different. As if a girl from one of the Capitol’s most powerful families and a boy who would’ve starved to death—in the  _ wheat  _ district, for God’s sake—if he hadn’t signed up for tesserae could actually have something in common. I had willingly stuck my name in the reaping ball several more times for a year’s supply of grain, despite being surrounded by wheat fields on all sides. The fact that she had the opportunity to hear the number of tesserae claimed made the division between us clear. 

Rowyn met my gaze. I could almost hear her thoughts, chiding me— _ she’s trying her best. _ Some of the other escorts didn’t see their tributes as people. Just a few short decades ago, tributes were kept in the Capitol Zoo. Rowyn herself had been scolded for her table manners and visible ribs after she’d been reaped. On the other hand, Ismene usually ate less on the train so the hungry children who’d been reaped could have thirds. I caught her on several occasions coming up with jokes to try and encourage a laugh out of the terrified tributes. There were clear divisions there, too. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Less than an hour later, we sit in the Justice Building. Serafine, Rowyn’s stylist, had poured us each some wine. I was on my third cup, a pleasant buzz building in the back of my brain, but Rowyn held hers in her lap, untouched. Myles’s assistants chatter amongst themselves, gossiping, while he sips his wine and watches the proceedings on the oversized television screen in front of us. Serafine, a great bear of a woman, holds a compact up to reapply her clown red lipstick. 

Ismene smooths her lavender dress for the millionth time and rises from her seat. “How do I look?” she says expectantly. Her mint green hair adds a good six inches to her diminutive height, and her bright golden shoes help even more. I give her a thumbs-up, take another oversize mouthful of wine. She gives me a wink before strutting out of the room. Rowyn turns her head slightly to watch her go before returning her gaze to the screen. Her jaw is clenched like a nutcracker, and I notice a tremble in her hands. 

“Hey,” I say, touching her arm. I think I feel her flinch, but I go on. “They’re going to be okay. She won’t pick them.” And I believe what I say. When I was sixteen, my name was in the reaping ball fifteen times—and that was small potatoes compared to most of the other kids I knew. Ruth Wilkinson had seven younger siblings, and even with tesserae split between her and her younger brother Ruth’s name was in thirty-six times. 

Rowyn looks at me intensely. Her jaw is still locked tight, but she gives me a small sort of smile. “It never goes away.” I see her hands flutter on the stem of her wine glass before she rubs her left forearm. “I couldn’t live with myself if they had to go in,” she says. During Rowyn’s Games all those years ago, a particularly sadistic tribute held her down and sliced into her forearm with his dagger nine times, demanding she tell him where her district partner was, all the while holding his hand over her mouth. If the Gamemakers’ pack of mutts hadn’t attacked when they did, he probably would’ve cut her arm off. The Capitol’s doctors fixed Rowyn up after she won, turning festering wounds into sterilized scars, but even they couldn’t completely erase the damage his blade had done. Sometimes I catch her running her fingers over those scars, the physical embodiment of the way she was changed. 

Ismene’s amplified voice rings through the television screen. Despite her shoes and hair, the two Peacekeepers standing towards the back of the stage dwarf Ismene by at least a foot. I hear Serafine’s low-pitched snort and fight my own grin. Rowyn remains stone-faced. The video produced by the Capitol begins to play across the television, and I fail to stifle my groan. I blame the wine. Serafine turns to me, arches a teal eyebrow, and raises her glass to toast me. That was the best thing about Serafine—she has an ironic sense of humor. Most of the Capitol citizens I had met were unflinchingly, annoyingly patriotic, but not Serafine. Her dark wit never failed to amuse me, and she reminds me of Suspiria in that way. 

_ No.  _ My stomach churns and my whole body turns cold. Thinking of Suspiria always had that effect on me. She’s definitely not the person I want to think of at this moment. My eyes water, so I blink hard. I gulp down the rest of my wine, too chickenshit to ask for another refill. 

Rowyn loudly shushes us before grabbing my hand. The room becomes eerily silent, all of us focused on the screen. Ismene flashes her charming smile at the audience. “Now then!” She chirps. “It is time for us to select the brave girl and boy who will represent District Nine in the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games.” She picks her way carefully to the reaping ball on her left, before quickly dunking her hand to the bottom and pulling out a slip. “The female tribute this year,” Ismene says grandly, before unfolding the name she had grabbed. For a second, so quickly that if you blinked you’d miss it, Ismene’s facade melts. My brow furrows in confusion. Ismene’s poker face was renowned, so what had caused her to falter? 

But Ismene recovered so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. “The female tribute this year,” she says, “is Penelope Meadows.” 

The camera pans to the crowd, and there is no air in the room for a moment. One of the prep team girls gasps. I drop my empty glass to the floor, barely noticing the shatter. Myles and Serafine are pale, but I fix my gaze on Rowyn. She is holding her breath, but unlike the rest of us, isn’t shocked. She stares intensely at the screen, boring a hole into the crowd. 

On the screen, Penelope’s face is bloodless. She is frozen in place, her curly hair blowing across her eyes. Slowly, we watch as Penelope shuffles towards the aisle, away from the relative safety of the other anonymous thirteen year old girls. Her bottom lip trembles as she moves towards the stage. My mouth hangs open, time is still ticking, and then—

“I volunteer!” A girl calls out. Next to me, I feel Rowyn exhale. The camera quickly finds an older girl standing at the back of the crowd. Tall, red-headed, this girl boldly walks up to Ismene as the air refills our room in the Justice Building. 

Ismene looks relieved for just a moment as the stocky girl stands next to her. “A volunteer!” she cries, placing her hand on the girl’s arm. Ismene chose a good day to wear her gold platform shoes—otherwise she’d be shorter than this girl, too. “What is your name, dear?” 

“Clara Conroy,” the girl says carefully. Clara appears to be seventeen or so, and despite her impressive height and broad shoulders, her face looks a bit sunken. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her red braids look rumpled. Something isn’t clicking here. This girl, this Clara, as confident as she may have seemed a second ago, doesn’t look well-fed, or like some sort of glory seeker. 

So why would she volunteer to die in Penelope’s place? 

“Clara Conroy!” Ismene repeats. “Well! It’s not everyday we have a volunteer in District Nine.” Clara manages a little smile as Ismene struts to the other reaping ball. Very brave of her, and so very strange. “Shall we continue?” Ismene says, digging into the other ball for a slip. She finally pulls one out. “District Nine’s male tribute,” Ismene announces, “is Jude Offridge.” 

More camera panning. I hear a wail, and then a boy stumbles into the aisle. Medium height, skinny, and light brown-haired, Jude Offridge has the typical District 9 look. Mother used to joke that everyone around here looked like they could walk into the nearest wheat field and never be found again. I notice Jude’s navy blue pants have a small hole near the knee. 

He stands next to Ismene, a few inches shorter than Clara, and the escort rests her hand on his shoulder. “Well! Here we are,” she says, “this year’s male and female tribute from District Nine: Clara Conroy and Jude Offridge!” She raises their arms into the air, and then blackout. The District 9 seal flashes on the screen. 

Silence pervades the air. Myles stands. “Interesting,” he says, thumb pressed against his pointed chin. His eyes find Rowyn, who hasn’t moved. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile is stuck on her face. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the rarity of a volunteer in District 9, but something is making my brain scramble woozily. 

Finally Rowyn speaks. “We had best make our way to the train. We can welcome our mentees there.” She squeezes my hand and pushes away the pieces of broken wine glass with her foot. Likely some lackey will sweep them up after we’ve departed. Serafine gives Rowyn a hard look, her lips pursed. I decide to follow Rowyn through the long hall of the Justice Building to where our train waits.

______________________________________________________________________________

I am not much of a talker. During my games, Suspiria had tried to make it seem like I was the “strong, silent type,” but in reality I tend to keep my thoughts locked up in my head. Growing up, I don’t think my parents tended to care too much about what I thought, so I’ve become comfortable with being quiet. 

However, the silence in the dining cabin of the train was deafening. I had switched to bourbon while Rowyn and I waited. I couldn’t help but wish that Serafine and Myles were allowed in our part of the train. Maybe a few extra people would buffer the tension. 

Rowyn was repeatedly rubbing her arm, her eyes closed. My buzz from earlier was quickly descending into drunkenness, but I could have sworn that she was trying not to look pleased. Volunteering was common in other districts, but not here, where a trip to the arena was an almost certain death sentence. Already our district had sent seventy-six of its youth to the games, and only two had come back. 

Years ago, my third year as a mentor, an older boy had volunteered when his younger brother’s name was chosen from the reaping ball. His name was Maddox, and he was scared shitless. He spent most of our time leading up to the games thinking out loud to me. I felt more like his therapist than his mentor. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he lamented. I was looking at him through my usual drunken stupor. He was eighteen, only two years younger than I was. “It just came out. I couldn’t watch him die,” he said to me, hands shaking. Maddox looked like a caged animal to me. I wanted to reach out and shake him, to tell him to man up and try, but I couldn’t cut through his wall of fear. I couldn’t find a way to reassure him that watching people die was much, much easier than people realize. It’s trying to collect yourself afterwards that I’d found impossible. 

Like all of the other tributes I’ve mentored, Maddox died in the arena. He was shot out of a tree by a Career girl, well-fed and well-trained for this sort of outcome, and she and the rest of her alliance stabbed him repeatedly until he stopped moving. That same girl won that year, and couldn’t even remember his name during her Victory Tour. 

Clara Conroy hadn’t seemed afraid, almost... expectant. I couldn’t put my finger on it. 

The sound of the cabin doors sliding open shook me out of my reverie. Ismene was chattering away, leading the two tributes behind her. Jude’s eyes were red; he’d definitely been crying. Clara’s face was harder to read. She sat down across the table from Rowyn. 

Rowyn gave them a warm smile. “Welcome,” she says, moving the plate of warm rolls towards the center of the table. Jude sits next to Clara and wipes at his nose. I see how thin his arm is and try not to wince. 

Clara snags a roll and sticks the whole thing into her mouth, chewing aggressively. Jude watches her out of the corner of his eye and takes a bite out of one. His eyes widened. I know the feeling. Before my reaping, my diet consisted mostly of tessera bread and whatever root vegetables Mother could scrounge up. Fluffy, buttery rolls were more than I could’ve possibly imagined. Again, the irony of the  _ wheat  _ district tributes being shocked by bread wasn’t lost on me. 

I clear my throat. “I’m Quimby Walker,” I begin, “and I will be Jude’s mentor.” I give him what I hope is a friendly sort of smile. He takes another bite of his roll and barely nods. 

“And my name is Rowyn Meadows,” Rowyn says, picking up where I left off. “I will be mentoring you, Clara.” 

Finally Clara swallows her roll, and begins to laugh. Ismene and I share a look. I’ve seen tributes cry, scream, curse, and a whole other host of reactions, but I’ve never seen one able to laugh this soon after being reaped. She goes on laughing for another minute while we watch her, startled. 

“You’re kidding me, right?” Clara says, wiping tears out of her eyes. Her eyes sweep over our faces, and our confusion makes her hoot with laughter again. “Meadows? Rowyn  _ Meadows?”  _ She points at Rowyn. “So you’re the lady going around town offering people money to volunteer for your kids, right?” With that said, Clara grabs another roll and bites it viciously. 

Rowyn shoots out of her seat, her face stony, and charges towards her room in the adjacent cabin. Jude chokes on his roll. I throw back the rest of my bourbon and leave my glass on the table. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to save face at this point, “but everyone’s had a long day, right? You can have dinner and we’ll reconvene tomorrow, okay?” I swivel my head to Ismene, who looks confused but plasters a big smile on her face. 

“Of course!” she cries. Clara rolls her eyes while Ismene pretends not to see. “The chef has prepared such an  _ amazing  _ dinner for us tonight. You’re in for such a treat! I believe we will start with a cheeseboard, and then—“ 

I am out the cabin door before Ismene can finish rattling off the menu. The amount I’ve drunk makes navigating the moving train even more difficult, and my stomach roils to beat the band. Rowyn’s room is at the end of the cabin, which seems to be miles away. Finally, I am at her door, knocking gently. 

“Come in.” I squint to focus, then—without much difficulty—I twist the door open. Rowyn’s room is a little bigger than mine, which is typical. She is seated on the window seat, watching the scenery whip by. I plop down in an armchair near the door. Rowyn doesn’t move, and if she hadn’t answered me a moment ago I’d think she didn’t know I was here. 

The silence continues a few moments longer, and then I clear my throat. “So, Jude appears to be quite skinny,” I start, trying to stay professional, “but Clara has moxie, I have to give her that.” Again, Rowyn is silent. I try again. “I think tomorrow we should ask them if they have any talents, or weapons experience, or—“ 

Rowyn tears her eyes from the window and turns to me so quickly I jump a bit in my seat. “I had to do it,” she blurts, “I just had to. My girls—Rhea— _ Penelope— _ they’re not like us.” Rowyn runs her hands through her hair, frazzled. My mouth hangs open, and I’m aware that I look like a dumb, drunk fish. It’s not far off from how I feel. 

She seems to sense that she isn’t reaching me, so she steps closer. “I never wanted children,” Rowyn admits, “how could I? Knowing that there was—small, but still, a possibility, that they could end up like me, or you,  _ us— _ Christopher doesn’t know, not really.” My brain sluggishly processes what she’s saying. I remember the first time I met Christopher after I moved to Victor’s Village. Rhea was a toddler, babbling like crazy, and Rowyn was still pregnant with Penelope. Those days I didn’t smile, and watching Rowyn and Christopher with their children felt like they were all in a different universe than the hell I was in. 

Rowyn’s hands instinctively find her left arm, and she yanks the sleeve back. It’s hard for me to not look away. The scars are ugly, puckered and coiled like snakes. She sees my reaction, and laughs ruefully. “You see? How could I let my Rhea, or Penny, or Cliff when it’s his time, go through  _ this?”  _ She fixes her sleeve back with her eyes still on me. I grip my staff with white knuckles. With her outburst over, Rowyn sighs, practically collapsing in the rocking chair across from me. 

“I really hoped nobody would find out,” she says, her eyes on the floor. And I understand. How could I not understand? I have no children, probably never will, no younger siblings, no family besides my parents, whom I couldn’t truthfully care less about. When I think of people I love, I think of Rowyn, of Glenna’s golden hair, even of Suspiria if I’m not careful. I’ve watched Rowyn’s children grow up. I held both Penelope and Cliff hours after they were born, and Rhea used to pick flowers out of Rowyn’s garden for me back when I wasn’t able to get out of bed. Victors have more money than we’ll be able to spend in a lifetime; Rowyn’s grandchildren and maybe even great-grandchildren will never have to apply for tesserae. To give someone more than most District citizens would make in a year so they would give their lives in the  _ very small  _ chance that one of Rowyn’s children was chosen—was that really so horrendous? 

But I still had a few questions. “How long?” I ask. Rowyn sighs, finally looks at me. 

“Ever since Rhea was old enough to be reaped,” she says quietly. “Christopher’s sister—Myrtle—she’s the one who finds them, asks them if they want to make two hundred tokens. All they have to do is volunteer if Rhea or Penelope Meadows’s name is called.” Rowyn gives me a grim smile. “I came up with the idea when Rhea was ten or so, and Christopher was disgusted. But a few days after her twelfth birthday... he started to see things my way.” 

I nodded, understanding. Rowyn had told me about how Christopher kept a kettle in the fireplace in their bedroom, so that whenever she had nightmares he could make her a cup of tea to calm her down. He was a good man, I knew that, caught in a bad situation.

Rowyn continues. “Victors’ children are reaped all the time,” she says with a shudder. “And I had—I knew how to use a sickle when I was Rhea’s age. I knew how to go a week without food, or find some for myself. But my girls—they’ve been  _ so  _ lucky, and they know that, but they haven’t had to learn like so many others have.” 

One day, out of boredom and sick curiosity, I had asked Ismene to send me a tape of some old Games. Rowyn’s was the first one I watched. She had been sixteen, a year younger than I was at my reaping, and a small, frail looking thing. She had three older brothers too old to be reaped, a father too bent and broken to work, and a younger sister whom she refused to let take tesserae. Her oldest brother’s wife had a baby on the way; all of this meant Rowyn’s name was in the reaping ball thirty-five times. But she wasn’t ready to give up. In her interview, she’d puffed up her chest and told everyone not to underestimate her in a fight, and showed the bottom teeth she’d had knocked out to prove it. In the end, Rowyn had proved all the nay-sayers wrong when she’d decapitated her final opponent, the boy from 4, to win her Games. I glanced at her arm again. It had cost her the world, and I couldn’t fault her for trying to protect her children from the same thing. 

It surprised me how quickly I forgave Rowyn. I knew I was the only person she worried would be very upset; after all, I had been reaped under very different circumstances than she had. Maybe the bourbon and wine swilling in my system made me more forgiving, but I gave Rowyn a smile. 

“Clara is a fighter,” I say. “It’s been fourteen years since District Nine has had a Victor. We both owe it to her and her family to bring her home.” 

Rowyn nodded at me solemnly. “Let’s get to work.” 


	2. Citrine POV - The Volunteer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about 12 pages long.

**39th Hunger Games**

  
**Citrine Ollivander, District 1 Tribute**

Mama and I wake up at dawn so we can start trying to tame The Beast. That’s our pet name for my unruly, gargantuan mess of strawberry blonde curls that grows where normal girls have hair. Usually, especially on school days, I am far too lazy to worry about taming The Beast. If I had it my way, I’d probably shave it all off and wear hats. Every time I say this, Mama rolls her eyes at me and huffs. 

“Really Citrine,” she rants, “you must be bound and determined to give me gray hairs and never get married.” 

She’s been saying this same shit my whole life. I used to stick my tongue out at her, but I realized that doing so reinforced the whole gray hairs thing. 

Today, however, is different in all the ways a day could be different. Today I care about how The Beast looks, and I will—maybe for the first time in my life—welcome all eyes being on me. Today I’m glad I have hair, because today I am going to volunteer for the 39th Hunger Games, case closed. 

When my alarm sounded, I shot out of my bed like a rocket and ran to the kitchen full force. Our house isn’t as nice as most other folks in the district, but we still have a big kitchen, and everybody has their own bedroom. Hell, we even have a guest bedroom now that Dolores’s married off. I plop on one of the stools in the breakfast nook. Mama stands at the coffee maker, pouring us each a tall mug. 

“Citrine!” She says sharply. Mama says everything with at least a little bit of an edge. “Quit acting like a bull in a China shop!” But even Mama can’t help but have a little bounce in her step today. She turns to me and smiles. “Besides, young lady,” she says, “we have work to do.” Mama stares down my bed head like a general eyes his opponents on the battlefield while rubbing her hand together. Her eyes gleam: Mama likes a challenge.

While I wrestle my hair tie out of The Beast’s clutches, Mama pours cream into our coffees. A treat for a special day; we usually drink our coffee black. Then she hauls ass to the master bathroom to collect the supplies we need. Dolores, my older sister, had bought Mama some special shampoo from the Capitol that smelled like a sexy forest and promised to turn even the curliest hair sleek and straight. She’d been saving some for this moment since we found out last month I had been chosen to be a volunteer. The volunteer. Even thinking those words made the corners of my mouth turn up unbidden. I can hear Eugenia’s voice announcing me, the clapping, ringing in my ears. 

Eugenia Clarin is in charge of the eighth year girls in the Training Academy. She has a narrow, angled face that inspired us girls to call her The Python in the locker room. I’m not sure why she holds such a position, since she isn’t a Victor, but there was no denying Eugenia knew her stuff. When she’d told us she had a special announcement, we knew that she and the other trainers had chosen one of us to volunteer. 

The Training Academy picks at least one volunteer per gender every year, but this year they didn’t have a male tribute pre-selected. I’m not sure why. Eugenia called the sixth and seventh year girls to gather with us as well, and my stomach churned. Valentine Crow, a sixth year, is rumored to be a knife-throwing prodigy, and I knew from watching her spar that she’s wicked fast. Choosing a volunteer younger than eighteen is unusual, but not unheard of. I had barely accounted for the younger girls as competition. Was that stupid of me? 

Eugenia’s loud whistle cut through my worries. “Girls,” she barked, “I want to tell you that the rest of the staff and I have chosen a volunteer from amongst you this year.” Her gaze swept over the crowd. “I believe,” she began, “that not only do we have a very competent volunteer chosen for this year, but several very promising future tributes.” And then Eugenia shocked us all: she smiled. It was very pinched and didn’t reach her eyes, but the attempt in and of itself almost made me fall out of my chair. 

“I am very pleased to announce,” she said, “that I have had the pleasure of training this student myself.” My spirits rose. Could it really be me? I wondered. And then the best possible thing happened. Eugenia’s eyes locked on me. “Citrine Ollivander, will you accept the honor of being District One’s female volunteer for the Thirty-Eighth Hunger Games?” 

I stood up so quickly my chair tipped. “Yes!” I called out, beside myself with happiness. Eugenia led the rest of the gathered girls in applause. A few of them shot me jealous looks, but I barely even noticed. I had been chosen! I was going in! 

Mama returns with her basket full of potions and products. I roll my sleeves back and liberally coat my head with the oil I always use before attempting to shampoo The Beast. “Get every last strand covered, Citrine,” Mama reminds me, just like she did when I was little and we realized The Beast truly had a mind of its own. She leans down and plants a kiss on my cheek. I pretend to scrub it off and stick out my tongue at her. We both laugh. 

“Dolores is coming at noon with a dress she’s fixed up for you,” Mama tells me. She uncorks a bottle and begins to mix shampoo with rose water and some other smell-goods in a small bowl. I nod. Dolores is one hell of a seamstress. She and Mama work together as tailors at the Dress Emporium. Their boss, Mr. Placid, lets them take home any dresses that don’t sell. I can’t wait to see what she’s fixed up for me this time. 

I was enjoying spending this much time with Mama, but my mind couldn’t stay still. My legs couldn’t either. It looked like I was trying to tap dance sitting down, the way my nervous energy had my feet bouncing. Mama placed her hands on my shoulders and gave me a squeeze before setting to work on The Beast. 

Gossip had made its way through the Training Academy not long after I was announced as the official volunteer. Of course, the trainers could announce whatever the hell they wanted, it was technically fair game at the Reaping. I’d heard that Eve, another eighteen year old, intended to volunteer, too. I knew as long as I beat her to yell out those two magical words—I volunteer!—there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. 

The male tribute was a crapshoot, too. Malcolm Breeze had been suspected to be the favorite for the official male volunteer, but for the first time in seven or so years they hadn’t chosen a guy for the position. And Malcolm was pissed—so pissed I heard he was giving up his dreams of going into the games altogether. 

My mouth curled into a smirk. When I was fourteen, Malcolm had tried to steal a kiss—and probably more—from me at the market. And I do mean steal, because he had pushed me up against a wall in a more private corner. It might have been my own damn fault for telling him I’d go with him to “talk,” but I was still stunned he’d done it. 

“Listen, Citrine,” he said to me, one hand in my hair and the other one pressing my arm to the brick behind us, “I’m awfully tired of you ignoring me, especially when we both know your family’s trash compared to mine.” His blue eyes glittered at me. I realized in that moment Malcolm had been pretending to be sweet on me—he felt he was owed my interests, and he was just plain mean. 

“Get off me!” I ordered him, jerking my head away from him. But he’d just laughed, so I held my face still so he wouldn’t pull The Beast anymore. My neck scraped against the wall, and it didn’t feel great. 

Malcolm moved his hand from my hair to my leg, squeezing it through my dress. I blinked, but refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. He brought his body closer to mine so we were pressed together. “I’d be a really good friend for you to have,” he whispered into my ear, “being that your daddy works for my daddy.” 

He didn’t get a whole lot farther than that, because as he turned his face to mine I brought my right knee into his crotch with all my might. Malcolm’s handsome face turned red, and his cheeks swelled up like a pufferfish. He swore and pulled his hands in to check on his family jewels, but before he had the chance I had whacked his spine with my elbow. Malcolm was one of the tallest boys in our class, but here he was moaning and groaning and lying in the street. 

I bent down so my mouth was close to his ear. “Don’t you ever,” I growled, “call me trash again.” Then I kicked him in the stomach, eliciting another few swears, and marched my ass home. 

He was the only guy who ever tried it on me, so I know word must’ve gotten around that Citrine Ollivander would kick anybody’s ass if they tried to cop a feel. So as far as I was concerned, Malcolm Breeze could go fuck himself; he wouldn’t last four minutes in the arena with me. In fact, none of the Training Academy boys would; that’s why I’d been chosen, and they hadn’t. Sucks to be them.   
______________________________________________________________________________  
Hours have passed, and I’m fighting back a yawn. Mama pinches my arm lightly. “Don’t you start!” she crows. I meet Dolores’s eyes in the full-length mirror, and my older sister and I suppress giggles.  


“Sorry, Mama,” I say dutifully. Mama rolls her eyes at me and hustles away to grab the garment bag from downstairs.   


With just Dolores here, I stare us both down in the mirror. Dolores is twenty-two and pretty damn pregnant. Our hair is the same color, but Dolores’s luscious curls know how to behave. Even fat, her body rounds and dips appropriately, while I am more muscle, more angles. Mama used to say that Dolores was the pretty one, but I got all the brains. “When the going gets tough,” she’d once said, “the tough go get Citrine.” She’d passed us down the big hair, the bee-stung lips, and wide hips; Daddy’s side of the family was responsible for the green eyes and small hands. Dolores was the one that all the boys watched walk home, and I was the one who they refused to spar with at the Training Academy.  


Dolores wraps her arm around my waist and squeezes me. “You look pretty, little sister,” she says sardonically. I’ve been at least four inches taller than her since I was of reaping age. I pat her head tenderly, and she snorts. Pretty or not, Dolores has a god awful laugh. 

Mama’s footsteps are heavy when she gets back into the room. “Here we are!” she cries, whipping the dress out of the bag. I gasp in spite of myself. It’s beautiful. The dress is a soft, sea-foam green color that will compliment my eyes. The fabric is silky to the touch. The silhouette nips in at the waist, and the skirt flares out slightly. Dolores figured out how to accentuate my waist without choking me, thank heavens. My fingers graze the hem. It’s easily the most feminine thing I own.   


“I love it,” I breathe, slowly taking it off of the hanger. The zipper is a light golden color. I hold my arms up over my head so Mama can help me put it on. We used to do this when I was little, but it took a lot more persuading on her part to get me into a dress. Now it feels appropriate: Mama dressing her daughter, the volunteer, for the last time before I’m a Victor.   


“Look!” Dolores exclaims, tugging on the side of the skirt, “it has _pockets_!”   
______________________________________________________________________________  
“Now remember, Citrine,” Mama says, “we have to wait on your father to get home before we head on down. He has something for you, and you know it’ll mean the world to him to walk you down one last time.” Daddy works late in the office of an amethyst mine across town, so I know he will be here just in time to walk down with us to the Justice Building. My mother and sister and I wait for him on the porch, delicately sipping sweet tea. 

I’m a daddy’s girl, always have been and probably always will be. Dolores has been naturally gentle and soft-spoken since she was born, but Daddy likes to say I came out bellowing a war cry. He gave me a toy sword for my second birthday, and enrolled me in the Training Academy as soon as I turned ten. When Mama and I don’t see eye to eye--which happens often--Daddy plays peacemaker, always making sure she listens to what I have to say. Which is saying something. Mama is known for being willful. 

It’s strange to me, I keep waiting to feel nervous. After all, only one person leaves the arena alive. But I’m not. There’s this deep part of me, down in my guts, that knows it’ll be me.  


A few neighbors wave and congratulate us as they walk by. Mama is preening, soaking up the attention like a sponge. I try to smile warmly instead of menacingly. Dolores leans closer to me. “Don’t look now,” she whispers, “but the lady from next door is staring you down.”   


I wait a few seconds before I glance over my shoulder. Of course it’s Mrs. Dashion. She’s around Mama’s age, but still feels comfortable staring at me with naked loathing etched all over her face. Her son, Sterling, was the male volunteer two years ago, and he’d returned to her in pieces. Even during the Victor’s Tour, she’d stared down the poor boy from 8 like he’d personally strangled Sterling on her front lawn. Never mind that her damned kid drowned because he’d volunteered knowing he couldn’t swim.   


Normally, I would look away and pretend not to notice, for Mama’s sake. But today I’m pretty pissed off that this bitter hag is mad at me because her kid died. So instead, I stare back at her defiantly and take a sip of my sweet tea. Predictably, she looks away first. I arch an eyebrow in her direction before I turn away.   


“Daddy!” Dolores cries, waving wildly. I stand up and shoot him a big smile. 

Daddy is maybe half an inch shorter than me now, but still calls me his baby girl. He wraps me up in a big hug. “My little Citrine,” he says, and I feel something wet touch my ear. Is he crying? What for? When we pull away, I see tear tracks on his face. “I am so proud of you,” he tells me.   


“Anton, show her what you got!” Mama goads. Daddy digs into his pocket, pulling out a golden locket. It’s shaped like a sun, maybe an inch in diameter.   


“I wanted it to be small enough so you could wear it into the arena,” he explains, fiddling with the clasp. I turn around so he can place it on my neck. The chain feels warm from where it’s been in his pocket.   


“Thank you, Daddy,” I say, and I mean it. I pull him in for another hug, and Mama joins, and Dolores even tries to press in around her big tummy. I can’t wait to make them proud.   
______________________________________________________________________________  
We walk to the Justice Building in comfortable silence. Peacekeepers prick my finger, which stings a little, but I’ve definitely had worse. In the last month, I’ve probably felt more pain in preparing for the arena than any Victor has ever actually had to feel. 

Eugenia had told me after I’d been announced as the volunteer that I would be training privately with her and Kronos, the eighth year boys’ trainer, up until the day of the Reaping. She’d sent me home with the name of a cream to have Mama pick up. When I’d told Mama the name of the cream Eugenia recommended, her face fell.  


“Are you sure that’s right?” she’d asked, brow furrowed. I insisted that I’d heard her correctly, and Mama pursed her lips. “That cream treats burns and other open wounds,” she said slowly. Concern filled her face. 

“Mama, I have to keep training if I have a shot at winning!” I whined at her. And she’d agreed, picking up the cream at my behest. She’d also stocked up on bandages, just in case.  


Mama had been right. On my first day of volunteer training, Eugenia and Kronos led me into a small room, just big enough for me to squat comfortably. “This is the temperature training room,” Eugenia said coolly. “After we leave, the door will shut behind us. You must strip down to your underwear and lay your clothing here,” she instructed, pointing to a small shelf above my head.   


“Just so you know,” Kronos said gruffly, “last year’s volunteers barely even screamed.” And then the door shut, and the room went black.   


I felt for the ledge above me and removed my clothes, jaw clenched. I would not scream. If last year’s tributes didn’t, neither would I. The air began to cool, and I shuddered in spite of myself. I squeezed my eyes shut as the temperature lowered. Every hair on my body stood on end. Remembering my training, I pressed my hands between my legs to keep my fingers warm.   


I still don’t know how long I was in that room. It felt like hours; the room going so cold I had urinated on myself for warmth, then so hot I struggled to breathe. Sweat covered my whole body, but it painfully turned to ice chips when the temperature swung back to the negatives. The room tortured me, swinging like a pendulum, and I bit down on the inside of my palm to keep from crying out. My legs shook when Eugenia opened the door. I was embarrassed to be covered in pee, but she’d congratulated me on thinking outside of the box. “And look! You barely made a peep,” she said, grinning.   


That was only the first day. Kronos had made me swim laps against the current in the pool until I had to be dragged out by a lifeguard. The two of them sparred with me, two against one, without weapons. Eugenia made me taste poisons with the antidotes nearby so I could recognize them in the arena. But the worst was the oxygen room. A few years ago, Gamemakers had cut all the oxygen in the arena, slowly suffocating every tribute who hadn’t gotten their hands on a mask. The Training Academy had just built a machine to simulate such, and so I spent a few afternoons learning what it felt like to asphyxiate. Kronos would pull me out, slapping my back until my lungs filled back up normally. Every day when I came home, Mama wordlessly slathered me with the cream. She didn’t want to know and I didn’t want to tell.   


The other eighteen year olds shuffle towards the back of the crowd, but not me. I stand on the invisible barrier line between the twelve and thirteen year old girls, closer to the aisleway.

The escort, Polymnia Flake, drones on about what an honor it was to be with us this year, and I admittedly tune her out. She was known to talk a lot. My mind even wandered during the Capitol’s film; I’d watched it enough times to have it memorized. I knew that my district partner and I would have a long night in front of us: meeting our mentors, watching the other reapings, and talking strategy would last long into the night. We’d be in the Capitol by morning, and then all of the pre-game coverage will start immediately. I can hardly believe that, in twenty-four hours time, I’d be in the tribute parade in front of all of Panem. 

Polymnia clears her throat after the video ends. “Lovely!” she calls, the microphone enhancing her brittle voice. Despite Polymnia’s smooth skin, I know she’s old as hell; her wrinkled hands give it away. “It is time for us to select the female tribute,” she announces. The reaping ball was smaller than in the other districts. Tessera are considered gauche, and I didn’t know anyone who sincerely needed it. Once, when I was nine, Dolores had to sign up for one tessera because Daddy had been injured and had to take time off of work. That was seen as our family’s biggest secret. I suspect even Dolores’s husband doesn’t know. 

The sound of Polymnia’s claw-like hand plunging into the ball brought me back to reality. A bead of sweat drips down my neck. My name was in that ball seven times. If I was reaped nothing would stop Eve or anyone else from volunteering in my place. Polymnia brought a slip close to her spectacled eyes. “Jade Mellatad!” she cries.   


My hand struck the sky so hard my shoulder groans. “I volunteer as tribute!” I shout, charging into the aisle.   


“A volunteer!” Polymnia booms, pretending to be shocked. We have at least one volunteer every single year, yet Polymnia clutches her heart and gasps like she’s never seen something so remarkable. I break into a huge grin as I half-run to the stage. I did it! 

My ears buzz as Polymnia shoves the microphone in my face. Her grip on my shoulder was much stronger than I’d thought for someone so shrimpy. I look out into the audience, trying to project confidence. “My name is Citrine Ollivander,” I say brightly.   


“Well, Miss Citrine,” Polymnia says, “District One is proud to have you as our tribute this year.” She leads the crowd in applause. I see my parents in the crowd, wiping away happy tears; Dolores lets out a big whoop, and her new husband Edras gives me a thumbs up.   


I feel as if I float above the crowd, above the Justice Building and Polymnia’s scratchy voice. I’m ascending, bobbing in the sky all the way to Victor’s Village, to glory, to my rightful place. Nobody can call me trash, or snicker behind my back, or anything else. Not once I’ve won. Not when I’d proved everybody wrong.   


I barely watch as Polymnia roots around in the other reaping ball to find my district partner. I don’t even hear the name she calls first. Nothing can touch me. Except--

“I volunteer!” I hear someone yell from the crowd. I recognize the voice, and I fall, a thousand feet down, crash landing back into my own body.  


Malcolm Breeze.   


Fuck. 

Polymnia goes through her whole routine again, fussing over Malcolm, calling him brave, that whole schtick. I’m frozen in place, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Zirconia had told me he was so ticked off he wasn’t going to volunteer, and Ursula had told her, and--  


“Let’s have another round of applause for our two brave volunteers, your tributes from District One!” Polymnia trumpets grandly, and I know I’m supposed to take her hand. So I do. I raise it to the sky and try to look as unbothered as possible, because as long as I don’t show them, no one will know what’s going on in my head. To my right, Malcolm has raised his hand to the sky as well, smiling arrogantly. I feel him looking at me, boring a hole into my head, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back. The crowd’s final round of applause lifts my spirits, but not even close to where they were before Malcolm fucked everything up. 

Polymnia lets us go and pivots to lead us into the Justice Building. I drop my smile but not my posture, and follow her inside. Then I feel someone pinch my inner arm. 

“Well, well well,” Malcolm simpers. He’s close to my ear and his hand is on my arm. I am going to explode. “Looks like we’re back together again, all grown up, huh?” he says, and smirks at me. I tilt my face up so I’m staring him squarely in the eye, and I muster all of my courage.   


“Go to hell,” I spit, yanking my arm away. My face fights to stay calm, and I give him a small smile. “Or don’t you remember what happened last time you tried to touch me?” 

Something miniscule changes in Malcolm’s face. It’s tiny, but I see it. He’s afraid of me. And he should be. He changes tactics. “We need to work together now, to bring glory to our district.”

My laugh is spiteful. “We can work together, sure, but don’t forget. They chose me, not you, because they know I can cut you into ribbons when the time comes.” I pick up my pace, matching step with Polymnia, as she leads us to what is bound to be the most strained train ride in the history of District 1. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! The next chapter will be posted within a week. Please comment with any suggestions, critiques, etcetera, etcetera.


	3. Blossom POV - District 11 Reaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter length ~ 17 pages.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

39th Hunger Games

Blossom Avery, District 11

Even though Lily kicked me all night, I still roll out of bed right before the sun comes up, peeling sticky crusties out of my eyes. Jasmine had named them that when she was about five; now, at age ten, she thought she was a woman grown, and always corrected me. “They’re not sticky crusties, it’s pronounced rheum,” Jasmine would say grandly, peering over at me from her book. She always had an eyebrow raised when she said it, as if I was so unsophisticated she could scarcely look at me. Her teacher had taught her about rheum, and how to read in Latin, and all sorts of other things you don’t need to know to work in a field, picking crops.

Lord, I don’t know what we’re going to do if we have to pull Jasmine out of school. Ma and I will have to put her on suicide watch.

Speaking of Ma, she somehow managed to get up and get gone without waking any of us kids. Lily is rolled up in her quilt like a caterpillar in a cocoon; never mind it was July, and hotter than tar. Bartie’s palette lies close to the window, and he’s sprawled out like roadkill. And Jasmine, the heaviest sleeper of us all, still snores.

I splash my face with the lukewarm water left in the basin. Ma’d have to have gotten it fresh, otherwise it’d have been about to boil sitting in this heat. Our little mirror hangs on the wall, and I check my face in it. No blemishes, but my under eyes are blackish, like big bruises punched deep into my already dark skin. These days it seems like even sleeping all day long wouldn’t make those budge. Today, they don’t bother me; I can hardly contain my smile.

Today is Friday, and while it might be Reaping Day, August and I don’t have work.

 _August_. My stomach does a flip even still. Tall, muscular, with the warmest deep brown eyes I’ve ever seen; everybody knew August was one of the best looking guys in the zone, maybe even the district. My smile busts into a full grin. And he was all mine!

The first thing I’d ever noticed about August was his hands. We’d been six or so, and had been sitting in the one room schoolhouse in our zone, learning to write our names. I marveled at how his long fingers gripped the pencil. As I got older, I still found myself watching his hands. When he chewed on the end of his eraser, I wanted nothing more than to be that eraser, held gently between his teeth, white and gleaming like stars.

I’d walked home that very same day and told Ma that I was going to grow up and be Mrs. August Harding someday. She’d nodded at me, pretending to listen, never for a moment realizing how serious I was. Imagine her surprise when almost ten years later, I brought him home to dinner to tell her we were courting.

I glance at the mirror, catch myself blushing and grinning like a maniac. I give myself an extra indulgent splash from the basin before limping back into the bedroom to wake the kids. “Folks!” I shout, clapping my hands. Bartie and Lily stir, blinking as sunlight streams in through our little window. But I’ll have to try harder than that to get Jasmine up. I squat down, my bad leg creaking a little, and clutch her shoulders. “It’s time to wake up, Jazz! It’s Reaping Day!” I’m yelling in her face, shaking her a little. Lily giggles as she fixes our bed.

Jasmine’s eyes pop open. “I hate you, Blossom,” she says gravely, wriggling out of my grasp.

It takes me a second to straighten back up. I’d started working at the ripe old age of twelve, and was assigned to an orchard a twenty minute walk from home. This was fine; I’d always liked climbing trees, and I thought picking apples and oranges and dropping them down into the huge baskets was fun. In those days working was new and exciting and I could pretend it was a game without getting whipped. I had worked there for six weeks or so when I fell about eleven feet out of a tree and shattered the hell out of my right leg.

If Ma hadn’t been Ma, I probably would’ve died. The prognosis was no good: cracked femur, broken ankle, and all the other leg bones whose names I couldn’t remember. I’d been laid up in bed for months after having my leg cut open. Ma’d had to sell the few remaining pieces of jewelry she had, family heirlooms passed down since before the Dark Days, including her wedding band.

We don’t have any pictures of my father, and I’d cried so many tears when Ma came back without it I felt like I’d run desert ditch dry. Ma had comforted me then, stroking my sweaty face.. “You’re worth more to me than any dumb jewelry,” she’d said, kissing my forehead.

A couple months later, Ma’s belly was full with a new baby who turned out to be Lily, and when I was older I realized that’s how she’d paid for the surgeries I’d needed.

Speak of the devil: Lily starts tugging at my hand. “I’m hungry,” she whines. I lean down and tug on her pigtails.

“You’re in luck, little pig,” I say, pinching her pink cheek tenderly. Ma has left us each a whole roll on the kitchen counter, wrapped in a green towel. I whip the towel off to reveal the bread, and Lily claps with excitement.

“It’s still warm,” Bartie breathes, his eyes round with wonder. His full name is Bartholomew, named after Ma’s brother, but he has a hard time fitting his mouth around a name that long. I pass him one. It’s dark bread, probably made with tessera wheat, speckled with little seeds on the outside. Typical District 11 bread: better with butter, but who can afford that?

Jasmine holds her roll to her nose and takes a long, reverent sniff. A smile spreads over her face and she wordlessly takes a bite.

Our house is more like a shack, as are most of the houses in Zone C, but Ma always makes sure we have enough to eat. Our ribs might poke a little, and every so often we go to bed with growling bellies, but I know we’re luckier than most. I take a seat as I eat my bread, looking down at my siblings. None of us look alike, an outward reminder of how Ma keeps us fed and clothed.

Jasmine’s skin is lighter and almost golden, like flax. She’s the only kid I know who has glasses; Ma got them for her so she could read better. Despite not working right, Jasmine’s eyes are an interesting shade of hazel, and her hair turns almost blonde in the summer. She calls her own skin “aurulent,” but I don’t know what that means.

Bartie is seven, already stocky and strong for his age, with inky black curls I’d kill to have. They coil in glossy ringlets when they’re not stuck down with little boy sweat. His skin is tawny and usually covered in dirt from playing outside. His mouth is full, and he’s got these gleaming white teeth that would make pearls jealous. Ma cried when he got one of his front ones knocked out last month, which made us all laugh.

Ma and I are spitting images: deep brown skin, blunt shoulders, long legs. Our hair stays in long braids so it’s more manageable. Ma is the tallest woman I know, and so her job is to hold fruit baskets over her head so none of it goes to waste. She works long hours, but it’s easier work, so her hands stay somewhat soft. I’ve heard people say how pretty Ma is, how lucky she is to keep her figure after having four babies, but the only person who’s really ever called me pretty is August.

And then there’s Lily, sticking out like a sore thumb. She’s ash-colored and freckled all over, with dark brown hair hanging straight in her pigtails. She’s the baby of the family, and the troublemaker; at only four and a half years of age Lily always has this look on her face like she knows your darkest secrets. The most striking thing about Lily is her eyes: heather grey, glowing brighter than the moon. I don’t know anybody in Zone C or D or any of the other poorer residential areas with eyes like that.

Mayor Ratcliffe and his daughter have the same turned-up nose as my baby sister, though.

Ma and I don’t talk about anybody’s daddy but mine, though I barely remember him. I was only a toddler when he died, and Ma won’t tell me how it happened, so I bet he was executed. No pictures, but I’m told he was even taller than Ma, and handsome to boot. That’s all I know. Bartie’s daddy I sort of remember; he and Ma worked together, but then he got whipped and he couldn’t work with her anymore. I’m pretty sure Jasmine’s daddy was a peacekeeper, though I don’t have any solid proof.

Jasmine’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I want to wear my pink dress today,” she says, wiping crumbs off of her hands. Lily is licking her hands dramatically, like she hasn’t eaten in days. Bartie is bouncing his legs. He always acts like he has ants in his pants.

I give Jasmine a nod. “You go ahead and wash up, you can help me iron.” I shake crumbs off of the green towels and fold it on the counter before turning my direction to Lily and Bartie. “You both can go out and play, but God save you both if you come back filthy.” I give them the sternest look I can manage. Bartie flashes me his big smile and races out the door. Lily gazes up at me.

“When is August coming?” she asks. I’m not the only one in this household fixated on him.

I raise an eyebrow at her. “You’re awful little to be so boy crazy, miss,” I warn, and she makes a face at me before tearing off after Bartie. She only likes it when August visits because he always brings us goat cheese and saves her the biggest piece. August was so sweet that way, he made sugar look sour.

Jasmine carefully unfolds her pink dress, one of her prized possessions. From Ma’s chestnut trunk, I rifle through our nice clothes, saved for special occasions. It’s a little sick that the reaping counts as such, but in Zone C we don’t have many other chances to wear them. Bartie’s navy blue pants might be a little short on him this year, but if I cuff them for him he might look stylish instead of poor. Ma got him a new orange button-up shirt a few weeks ago from the market, and I know he’ll be excited to wear it for the first time.

Lily is going to wear one of Jasmine’s hand-me-downs, which is secretly one of my hand-me-downs, too. I smile when I look down at the lavender dress, the heather gray buttons down the front. I had worn it on my very first day of school, along with matching hair ribbons woven through my braids. It’ll be big on Lily, so I decide to hem it and find one of Ma’s scarves to use as a belt. I haven’t grown any, so my yellow dress from last year will fit me fine. Ma still has to work until after lunch, so Jasmine and I will fix up her nicest blue dress for her, too.

I snicker to myself. All of us in our colors, while most other people will be wearing browns and grays. A rainbow wardrobe to match our rainbow skintones. __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Using the iron in the middle of the summer has to be one of the dumbest things I’ve done, but I know otherwise Ma will fuss at our wrinkled clothes. Last year, the temperatures had already reached a hundred degrees in the shade, so I’d decided we could skip ironing on reaping day, and Ma had quarreled with me afterwards.

“Bartie’s pants have a patch and none of you have nice shoes,” she’d whispered at me. Ma always whispered when she was angry; it made her twice as scary. “You could at least have gotten the wrinkles out so everybody wouldn’t talk about how feral my children look.”

“Ma, a lot of people had wrinkles!” I’d whined.

“A lot of people aren’t my children.” Ma crossed her arms across her chest as if it were final. I knew Ma had been called uppity, but I didn’t understand why she cared so damn much what we looked like. My dress could be starched ‘til it cracked on concrete, but it wouldn’t keep me from being reaped, or move me out of Zone C, or stop me from being a farm hand.

I could tell Ma saw on my face that I was frustrated with her, and she sighed. “Blossom,” she tried again, more patiently. “You know that I wasn’t born in this district.” I pursed my lips. I’d heard this story before. “My parents never picked crops, or milked cows, or anything like that before the Rebellion,” she continued, holding my hand in hers. I’d long since changed jobs to milking cows, so I didn’t have many callouses. Ma’s hands were long and elegant; I saw the mark on her finger where her wedding band used to sit.

“You know that you and I, and your brother and sisters, we’re all different from the other people here,” she said. Our eyes were level, and I felt like she was staring down into the depths of my very soul.

“But Ma, I _was_ born in this district,” I reminded her, giving her slender fingers a squeeze. “I _am_ like the other people here. I’m like August, and my friends, and--”

Ma had cut me off by shaking her head. “No, Blossom,” she said quietly. “We’re made of stronger stuff than anybody in Zone C could imagine.” And I didn’t quite understand her, but I did understand that she was proud. I knew Ma and I had lived in Zone B before my daddy died, and had only moved into this little house with a dirt floor when she hadn’t been able to afford our other home. I knew when we’d been in serious danger of going hungry she had precious few things of any value we could sell, and when there wasn’t a market for that Ma could sell her good looks. But I still don’t think that made us any stronger.

I wipe sweat off my brow. “Here, Jazz,” I say, passing her the pink dress. Jasmine is preoccupied at the mirror, weaving little flowers into her curls. Her tongue pokes through her teeth, showing me she’s concentrating. I give her a smirk. “Beauty queen,” I tease, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair.

“Did I hear somebody say beauty queen?” I hear a familiar voice call out, and my heart skips a beat. I whip around.

“August!” I cry -- and then he’s holding me, pressing me to his chest like there’s nothing else in the world.

August and I had our first kiss two years ago, snuck in behind a tree while he walked me home from work. I should’ve seen it coming. Because of my leg, I’m awful slow to walk with; most of the kids our age aren’t patient enough to wait for me. But not August. For weeks before he got up the nerve to kiss me, he’d walked with me, taking breaks when I needed it, even if I’d had a hard day milking cows and had to huff and puff until it was dark. His magnificent hands, dark copper and only a little rough from picking, had settled behind my neck, holding my face firmly to his.

This kiss feels just as magical, even though it’s in full view of my little sister.

“Ew!” Jasmine shrieks, wiping her eyeglasses on her skirt. August pulls away from me, and we both laugh. He sticks his hands on his hips.

“You’d better get changed before your dress gets mucked up, young lady,” he says, pretending to scold her. She gives him a big eye roll before disappearing into the other room.

August turns back to me. “Hi, doll. Got these for you.” He presses some daisies into my hand.

“Oh, kind sir, you shouldn’t have!” I feign shock. His smile makes me melt.

“The prettiest girl I know deserves some flowers in her hair,” he explains. The daisies are warm from his pocket, and barely wilted. They’ll look nice with my yellow dress.

“Thank you,” I breathe, kissing his cheek. He’s giving me his signature smirk, the one that’s more confident than I’ve ever felt.

August’s finger tugs the end of my braid. “Can I help you put them in your braids?” he asks, his eyes big. I bite my lip at him and nod.

August is a true gentleman, pulling out my chair for me as I hobble over to it. I know he’d rather scoop me up in his strong arms and place me there myself, but I’ll be damned before I depend on a man to move me around in my own house. I start taking my hair down and brush it carefully, feeling August’s eyes on me the whole time.

Most times we spend together, August talks my ear off. I’m used to this; I like listening to him, like I listen to my three younger siblings. But today I can tell he’s feeling quiet. Reaping Day is scary for everybody who’s of reaping age. I know at age seventeen, my name’s in forty-two times, and next year it’ll be even more. August has an older brother, married with a child of his own, who can’t claim tessera, in addition to his own mother and little sister, Dora, at home. Dora’s fourteen, old enough to claim some tessera of her own, but I know August wouldn’t allow putting her in danger if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. We never talk about how many slips we each have in the reaping ball, but by my estimate, August’s name is in there at least fifty times.

But this is also his last year! I can’t imagine the relief he’ll feel once the Reaping is over, when he walks me back to his house. Because it’s a Friday, Ma lets me sleep over at August’s, granted I still get to work on time. I have to leave a half hour earlier to make it to the farm in time, but it’s worth it.

With August almost being too old to be Reaped, it’s also time for him to start thinking about his future. I know he’s set some money aside to get a little house of his own. Thinking about it makes me go hot all over. _Mrs. August Harding._

“My turn!” August says, snapping me out of my daydreams. I’ve finished braiding my hair, wrapping them around each other like a basket woven on my head. He’s so excited to stick the flowers in it, like he was a little boy with a crush. I can’t help but smirk at him.

“Try not to pull my hair too much,” I say, leaning my head back into his hands.

______________________________________________________________________________

By the time I’ve got Bartie fully scrubbed, Dora has joined us. Instead of flowers, she’s stuck a few twigs in her hair so they stick straight up. Ma would have a fit if any of her girls went down to the Justice Building looking like that, but Mrs. Harding isn’t nearly so eaten up with appearances.

I look down at my kids, satisfied. Jasmine’s hair is pulled into a low bun that makes her look so grown up. Lily’s dress isn’t too long, and she complied with the little sash I’d fashioned. Bartie is clean -- the best we can usually do with him. August, of course, looks godlike standing next to all of us, even though his khaki pants are somewhat crumpled. He’s gotten himself a pair of dark green suspenders, of which he’s clearly very proud. We look quite handsome together; I can’t hardly stop looking at us in the mirror.

“My ma still had to work today, so she’s meeting us over in Zone B,” I say, smoothing my dress one last time before we go. Jasmine set Ma’s blue dress on the table just so, waiting for her.

“My ma’s saving a spot for your ma,” Dora replies. Mrs. Harding works in Zone B, cleaning official buildings and tending the Mayor’s garden. It’s a coveted job, and she’s so good at it that Ma says she must be part flower herself.

Jasmine and Dora lead the way as we walk to the wall on the edge of Zone C. Bartie always gets anxious on Reaping Day, so he’s clinging to my hand. Lily, funnily enough, clings to August. Most of our neighbors are heading to the Justice Building too; I wave at Pansy Gallohorn, who I used to sit next to in school. She’s got her own group of brown-skinned little kids to herd.

Surrounded by the other kids of District 11, it’s apparent how hardened most of us are. During the harvest, everybody works; Bartie and Jasmine had been assigned to picking fruit in orchards, and next year Lily would be drafted, too. Most kids who are old enough to be Reaped work full-time to feed their families, but I know families with children as young as eight who’ve had to quit school and help out.

Ninety-percent of Zone C has skin some shade of brown. Hell, ninety-percent of District 11 is brown; the lighter-skinned people work in Zone B and live in Zone A, easier jobs and lives than the rest of us. Nobody in our zone treats darker skinned kids like me and Bartie differently, but the lightest of light-skinned (namely Lily) often draw stares.

Most people don’t talk about life here before the First Rebellion, but I do know that District 11, as the largest district in terms of landmass and population, was particularly hard to control. That’s why our district was subsequently cut up into zones, separated by large walls, so we were easier to monitor. You have to have a specific reason to cross between zones, usually with some sort of written permit. The Justice Building spends most of its time trying trespassing cases, processing Zone permits, and administering public whippings; I don’t know if it’s like that in other districts.

Finally we make it to the wall, where our group has to split up. I make Jasmine hold Bartie and Lily by the hand so nobody gets lost. They get to go in through the larger entrance, simply telling one of the Peacekeepers standing by their names. August steps into the boys’ line, and Dora and I wait in the girls’. I have a tiny, barely noticeable scar on my left index finger from where I’ve been pricked over the years. It’s probably not the most sanitary; a stone-faced woman jabs my finger roughly with a thick needle, then smears my blood into a miniscule vial. Dora’s behind me, and the woman reuses the needle, making me wince. I try to ignore the fact that it had already been covered in blood when it pierced my skin, clenching my fist to put pressure on it. Dora works in a field--she’s quite strong for her age--so her calloused skin is harder to break. She lets out a small whimper as the woman presses harder. I clench my jaw.

We’re herded into the town square like cattle; boys on the left side, girls on the right. A wide aisle separates us, lined with rope cordons and ever-present Peacekeepers. Dora is ushered ahead of me in the crowd, closer to the girls her age. Pansy Gallohorn stands next to me, wordlessly takes my hand. I haven’t seen her in months, but any sort of familiar face is comforting today.

I look to my left, searching for several seconds until I see August. He gives me a goofy smile, so I blow him a kiss. My heart soars as he moves to catch my kiss and tuck it away. Pansy notices and smiles at me. We don’t talk; I doubt we could hear each other over the commotion.

I hope Ma found Jasmine. The air is hot and sticky. I try to discreetly fan my armpits. I’d hate it if August saw my sweat stains.

It feels like an eternity before things get underway, but then I hear the Anthem of Panem begin to play. Over the microphone, a silky, baritone voice sings along. Aeson Ring, our district’s escort, stands at the front of the stage, belting his heart out. I’d seen other district reapings, and sometimes people sang along. Not here. Luckily, Aeson’s rendition was so grand he more than made up for our silence.

For a Capitolite, Aeson looked almost normal, until you noticed his yellow eyes. Rumor had it that he’d had them surgically enhanced so he could see in the dark. And that wasn’t even the most scandalous rumor about him. I’d heard he’d plucked his wife, Nutmeg, out of the slums of Zone J. Folks out there were lucky to eat twice a week; the children ran around naked with swollen bellies. Our district hadn’t had a Victor in several years, so we didn’t get enough attention for it to be verified, but I couldn’t imagine how pretty Nutmeg had to be to catch the eye of a man so far above her station.

As the anthem wound down, Aeson bowed to us. There’s a smattering of polite applause, but I'm still holding Pansy’s clammy hand. The applause went on long enough that Aeson found it appropriate to take another long bow. He flattens his graying hair quickly before pasting on a wide grin.

“Welcome, everyone,” Aeson booms, “to the Reaping for the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games!” He claps loudly. A few people join in. The sound makes my stomach roll. Who in their right mind celebrates this?

Aeson continues. “It is now time for us to choose our tributes for this year’s events.” Like every year, I’m struck by the silence around me. It feels like everyone is holding their breath as Aeson stands by the first reaping ball.

Forty-two times. My name is in that ball forty-two times. Pansy is squeezing my hand even harder now. I wonder what number she’s repeating inside her head.

Aeson Ring is a mountainous man, I remind myself, so it’s comforting to see him standing next to the enormous reaping ball. It’s large enough that I could take a bath in it--there are thousands of names in that ball, my chances are so slim. I repeat it like a mantra. My ears ring.

“Our courageous female tribute,” Aeson announces, leaning into his words before taking a pause, “is Olive Sickles.”

I exhale in a huff. I’ve been spared.

The girl now standing in the aisle is very small. She doesn’t look any older than Jasmine. I stand on my tiptoes to see better. Cherrywood skin, chapped lips, and unbearably skinny. Olive Sickles appears to be trying very hard not to cry. Guilt creeps into my bones because I am happy.

I am happy Olive Sickles has been chosen and not me, not someone I know.

In two weeks Olive Sickles will be dead, and I’m glad it’s not me.

Aeson is very light on his feet for a man his size, and he ambles over to the remaining reaping ball. It’s just as absurdly gigantic as the first one. He searches for quite a few seconds before pulling out a scrap of paper. “Our male tribute this year,” he begins, making a huge show of pausing and squinting to read--

“August Harding!”

Pansy drops my hand.

My heart thumps.

Hunger pains. Public whipping. Falling from that tree, my leg fragmented into bits. Burning alive. None of those could possibly compare to the pain gripping me now. My hands grip into fists and I feel myself shake. Other girls are looking at me, confusion, pity, shame, relief on their faces. But I don’t care. My brain is so jumbled up I couldn’t possibly care. A sob escapes my lips.

August looks stricken, but his feet obediently walk towards the stage. His face is white. He’s not smiling. Of course he’s not smiling, he’s just been ordered a death sentence. I’m drawn to him, a moth towards flame, but I feel hands try to stop me as I move aimlessly towards him. Tracker jacker venom. Black eyes. Bruises that take months to heal. This isn’t real. I cry out.

“No!”

August turns to me, fear etched in his features. “Blossom, please,” he’s saying, glancing at the peacekeepers all around us. They’re moving closer. The other girls are now backing away from me, saving themselves. Broken bones. Stinging nettles. My face is wet. Am I crying? I yell out again:

“August, no!”

He’s stopped walking. I feel a million eyes touch my skin, boring deep. We’re close, if I reach out I can feel him. August’s eyes are wide with fear. It’s so damn hot, am I on fire? Burnt fingers. Stubbed toes.

A strong hand yanks my shoulder, hard. I wail. August’s face is ashen. “Let her go, please!” he cries. Hands up in front of him: he’s begging. I shrug off the hand, reaching out for August. Sleepless nights. Bleeding gums.

“We have to run,” I whisper, but I can’t run, I’m not fast enough. Chest tight, heaving for breath. The hand grabs my wrist this time, twisting me. I stumble back, hitting the ground with a grunt. It hurts, but it can’t compare to the pain in my chest.

“Don’t hurt her!” August yells. There are too many Peacekeepers surrounding us. Three of them stand in front of him. Thank god he’s so tall or I wouldn’t be able to see his face.

A gruff voice growls at me. “Stay down,” the Peacekeeper warns. I ignore him, I try to push myself up.

_Thwack!_

Pain spreads through my body as I’m knocked to the dirt. I don’t make a sound. He hit my shoulder with the butt of his rifle.

“August!” I yell. I stretch my neck up to see the other Peacekeepers have pulled out their guns. Two of them half-drag August to the front of the square. He’s twisting to watch me. It’s a horrific sight. Aeson Ring, damn him, is babbling away. The camera must not be broadcasting this commotion. The Capitol citizens have no reason to watch district squabbles.

I hate everyone around me for watching. There’s nothing I can do.

God almighty, _they are tearing off my arms--_

August is standing at the front of the stage. His face is unreadable, even to me. Aeson Ring’s hand rests on his shoulder. Olive Sickles looks even littler standing next to these imposing men. I see that August’s eyes haven’t left me. Nobody’s touching me, but by pulling August away, I’m ripped open.

“Let’s have a warm round of applause for District Eleven’s tributes!” Aeson practically sings. He beats his hands together manically, but he’s alone this time. Not even the officials seated onstage move a muscle.

I can’t breathe. Instead, I scream again.

_“August!”_

My throat is on fire, my hands scrape the ground as I try to stand.

_“August, no!”_

They tore out my heart. They took away a part of me, sent him to die.

I hear a male Peacekeeper sigh, then nothingness engulfs me and the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations for making it this far! This chapter was hard for me to finish writing - I think it was harder to get into Blossom's head. Critiques are more than welcome in the comments!


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